fiction
Mystery, crime, murder, unsolved cases. Contribute your own tales of crime to Criminal.
Inside the Blood Pheasant
Harriet couldn’t wait to open the little black book that documented her great grandfather’s bird discoveries from around the world. His daughter, Grandma Violet, had promised it to her for years. Harriet had followed in the footsteps of the elder man of birds. Now that she was in London to investigate the late colonel’s potential fraud, Grandma Violet had invited her to Lambsfield Manor to collect some of the possessions he had left to her. The coveted little black book was said to be full of sketches and watercolor illustrations of the birds he had observed, shot, and studied over the many decades of his long career in both ornithology and in the military. Harriet hoped it might contain clues to the mystery that she so hoped to solve after she heard of the allegations that he might have stolen and doctored hundreds of bird specimens from museums and claimed them as his own.
April CopePublished 3 years ago in CriminalCasper Roth
This morning like many mornings before it, Casper Roth found himself in the Penny-farthing lounge resort and spa. Signage misleading for it was neither a resort nor a spa. It was one of the three shops south of Brixton you could find a butter biscuit worth tasting. Casper was placid. Domesticated and soft. Unmovable in a pathetic sort of way. After collecting his tea and scone he sat in the corner shop sipping. Longing for a reception with one unknown to him, so that he might impress upon them his cleverness. For although he had a will similar to the rigidity of wheatgrass, he had the eyes and mind to equal the difference. Being the sole owner of the world's largest pancake collection, he felt a great deal of imagined importance. A great weight of batter about his shoulders.
Nathaniel ChurchillPublished 3 years ago in Criminal"Little Black Book"
Little Black Book Written by Charlotte Simon
Charlotte SimonPublished 3 years ago in CriminalThe Langston's
In the year 1961 $20,000 would make a world of difference to a newly made widow. Bills were piling on the kitchen counter of Mrs. Langston’s quaint cottage home on one of the quietest streets in Delroy, Mississippi. Mr. Langston left a line of debt in his place five months after his passing. His death was still a mystery to Mrs. Langston. One moment he was standing by her outside of their favorite diner on 3rd St., Willaminas. A split-second later Mrs. Langston’s scream rang out on the busy street as her husband, fell to the ground next to her feet gasping for air. Blood leaked from his mouth and covered his white tee-shirt as well as her periwinkle stilettos. He took his last breath on the way to the hospital, all alone. It hurt Mrs. Langston that she was unable to ride with her husband in the ambulance. She wanted to hold his hand, the same hand she held since she was fourteen. She wanted to let him know she was by his side, just as she promised. She took that vow over twenty years ago where I love you’s were exchanged, in front of that same diner. Most importantly, she wanted to ask if he saw who was responsible for putting him on his deathbed. He was all alone and now so was she.
Catspaw
Sometimes the teeth of the gift horse are rotten. But that doesn’t matter when you desperately need a ride. The thick, heavy envelope showed up one day, full of 100-dollar bills, a lifeline against the circling sharks. With the 20 grand, she could pay them off, move town, put a deposit on a small apartment for them. It would mean a fresh start. She thanked God and her daughter, and didn’t ask questions.
Georgia CampbellPublished 3 years ago in CriminalThe Birder
I know I shouldn’t snoop, but nothing delights me more than peering into the private rituals of other people’s lives. Even a scribbled grocery list or water bill is exciting - it’s a secret simply in that it wasn’t meant for me. I like knowing what people do and how they function outside of the persona they project.
Emily GallantPublished 3 years ago in CriminalThe Shadowed Past
Frank walked in the door, past their lonely fern, and immediately second-guessed all the funeral arrangements he’d just made. He was physically and emotionally exhausted, torn between calling it a night or downing a 5- hour Energy to get some work done. The last thing he needed was his wife starting in on him before he barely cleared the front door.
Rayden RainesPublished 3 years ago in CriminalProphecy Girl
How much time has to pass for a crime to become less significant? A decade? More? How to you decide when murder, rape, assault, theft, is no longer worth investigating? Some people seem to be able to leave the past where they have buried it. I was never someone who could do that. The past is what makes us who we are both the good of it and the bad. Is it not the responsibility of those of us here on this earth now, to weed out the crimes of the past and hold those who committed them accountable, even if they too are gone? Of course, I suppose it could be argued that it's harder for a person like me to let go, when they are surrounded by the noise of other people’s pasts and by their secrets.
Clara Elizabeth Hamilton Orr BurnsPublished 3 years ago in CriminalAlbert Foundling
The man in the black coat had been sitting at the lamppost for over an hour. His body had grown tired of the bench, so now he stood, stretching the muscles in his legs to warm them up. His leather bag lay snug across his chest. With a single tap, he ashed his tobacco pipe, rolled it in its canvas pouch, and returned it to its spot within the bag. The leather was worn. The tooling at the edge had softened. The face of it was a darker shade of brown than the rest. But nothing on the man, the pouch, the pipe, the black coat, or the leather bag was as tattered and worn as what he brought forth next. From his bag, the man brought out a black book. It was the most faded version of black there was. Almost translucent in the man’s ashen hands. He pulled the band from its cover and opened the binding. His eyes studied the handwriting on the first page. His fingers traced old ink and water stains. It was a wonder the cover and page were still intact with the amount of obvious wear of this book. He fumbled a few pages over until only a few fresh lines sat on the page.
Too Many Spy Movies
From the couch, I could hear the muted thunk of something colliding with my front door. It surprised me because I wasn’t expecting any packages; hadn’t ordered anything in quite a while. I was saving to move out of my depressing two-bedroom apartment. I often pictured a time, long before I moved in, where the paint was fresh on the once-white-walls and the appliances were new. Now, the walls were a sickly beige hue and my dishwasher worked only if I kicked it a few good times. My only reprieve was that the window in the living room faced a shallow wooded area, separating the building from a park. Instead of looking at parked cars, I sometimes watched the deer, birds and the occasional fox interact with nature while I had my morning coffee. So yeah, I cut back on my spending — i.e., no more Amazon shopping sprees.
Pleasantwood Valley
Pleasantwood Valley – could any area of this city have a more ironic name? For as long as you can remember, Pleasantwood Valley has been worthy of many other names, but not that one. Factory buildings, old and generally unused, as far as the eye can see; a layer of smog giving a grey hue to the sky, deceptively transparent from a distance; shady characters around every corner, from the large and burly to the demure and stealthy – all willing to either con their next victim out of time and money or threaten the poor fool outright.
Dominic MorrisPublished 3 years ago in CriminalVestus Virum Facit
I couldn’t believe this happened to me either, but bear with me ok? So it’s a completely regular Tuesday. It’s not especially hot outside, it’s jacket weather, there are clouds in the sky but they’re not remarkable; the sun is there, sometimes.
Amelia LanePublished 3 years ago in Criminal